


Conversion

by The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea



Series: Novelties [2]
Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Augmentation, But will not be sexual, Gen, Horror, Medical Experimentation, Such as PTSD, WW2, Will deal with dark themes, World War Two, and the like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-02 15:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11512383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea/pseuds/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea
Summary: He is ordinary Sam Luke, sergeant in the 123rd infantry of the United States Army, drum enthusiast, and poet on the side.Until he isn’t.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Princex_N](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princex_N/gifts).
  * Inspired by [And Everything Is My Fault (So Spectacular)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649802) by [bbjkrss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbjkrss/pseuds/bbjkrss). 



> This one is gonna be a doozy, folks. I will be posting updates here and on Tumblr, as is the usual. I think this will fit into the series Novelties somehow? We'll see! This work was in part inspired by another work, which can be seen above. Well I think that's it... I hope you all like it!

Don’t move a muscle. Does he have any muscles anymore? Probably not, more like an infrastructure. The very word feels like a teflon-coated bullet in the chest, sharp, stunning, and most of all, painful. 

His chest expands with a slow, cautious breath. It doesn’t hurt in a searing way anymore, more like a deep-seated ache in his sternum.

That’ll be the wires winding their way round your heart, he thinks to himself, and he can’t help the snarl that's escaped his mouth. The Engineer casts a glare at him. 

“Didn’t I tell you not to move, you ingrate?” An electrical shock helpfully ‘diverts’ itself to spasm at his cheek, causing him to cry out. A laugh grates at his ears. Thank god they’re now working. Just yesterday had he been given back his hearing... the agony of feeling a copper-tipped drill snagging into his skin, twisting out the flesh above his sideburns, seeing it tear his ears from his head with a sickening precision, but not to hear it? That was the worst torture imaginable, but he was afraid that there was worse yet to come. 

The Engineer paces in front of him, waving a soldering iron in front of him like a conductor’s baton. “Here I am, upgrading you to be the world’s newest defense, and you just sit there and scowl at me. Well, it’ll be worth it when the United States wins and we overrun those German rats. Then the entire world will know of Becile Industries! We will crush that softhearted Walters, and then,” he says, breath drawing in with a gleam of ambition in his eye, “we will have the world in the palm of our hands.”

His experiment stares at him soullessly, used to these maniacal rants. The Engineer scoffs and gives it another shock, this time in the chest. This gets him a response.

Sam Luke screams, shuddering against the straps. Immobile, he can only cry out to give voice to his utter agony.

It’s maddening, enough to make one wish for death.

The Engineer gives him a wicked grin, coffee-stained teeth shining against the light trained on the table. “Shh, now. I’ve been working on a quick fix to that awful moaning…”. With that, he rummaged for a little piece of black technology that looked similar to a light switch. He soldered it onto the roof of Sam’s mouth, drawing out muffled shouts and whimpers, and flicked it on. 

Suddenly, Sam was absolutely silent. Still he screamed, but no sound was heard, and with a sinking sensation, he knew that The Engineer didn’t simply deign not to listen to him, but had muzzled him like a dog.

He patted Sam’s wasted cheek. “Okay, buddy. We’ll have a new session tomorrow… I can’t wait to try a few more things out, and then you’ll be complete.” The man left, closing the door behind him with a jarring clang. Darkness devoured the room totally, and Sam could only close his eyes.

Breathe out.


	2. Flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! I quite like this chapter, but tell me what you think. I'll try to update Novelties today if I can or tomorrow. :D

Hatchworth wakes with a scream that only exists inside his head. Just like being muzzled by The Engineer, no sound leaks from his mouth, and this doesn’t help to ascertain reality. The moon looks down at him from the open window like the lamp set against his eyelids back at the operating table; it’s huge and cruel and looming, and for a moment, Hatchworth is right back on that hardtop table, writhing against his leather restraints in the vain hope that one would break someday. 

They never even frayed.

He listens to the sound of his shouts in his ears, puzzled. He’s not really there, is he…? No, he’s… he’s in his bed at Walter Manor. He’s in bed and he’s safe. 

Still, he scrambles to turn on the light, bellows spreading in staccato bursts, not nearly enough to give him any real breath. They’re too quick, not a crane’s elegant wingspan spreading to take flight, but… more like a hummingbird, he decides. 

“Hummingbird bellows? What’s going on in there, Hatchworth?” The Spine’s voice resounds in his head, carried over the manor wifi. 

Hatchworth gapes into space. He sincerely hopes The Spine didn’t hear him screaming… 

“I, uh… well, it’s nothing, The Spine. Nothing at all,” he tacks onto the end cheerfully. 

The Spine had never been one to pry, especially not with Hatchworth. With his brothers, he was less apt to excessive restraint in matters of probing and questioning-- or as Rabbit liked to call it, “mother-henning”. But with Hatchworth, who wasn’t related to him, and who was at least a tiny bit more mature than the other bots, he didn’t poke or prod.

Usually.

But Hatchworth was looking more spooked than a hunted jackrabbit in a thunderstorm. His boiler was working so hard The Spine could hear its rushing water from his spot in Hatchworth’s doorway; his photoreceptors glowed out white light, showing how huge with fear they were; and his stovepipe blew out steam as quickly as his bellows breathed in air. The figure in the dark was in clear distress.

The Spine approached noiselessly, footsteps light as feathers. When he placed a palm on Hatchworth’s shoulder-- meant to be a comforting gesture-- the bot shuddered out a gasp. It sounded like a pent-up scream.

Hatchworth spoke up quickly, hoping to assuage The Spine’s concern. “Didn’t hear you come in. The Spine.” He had a halting way of talking, and normally he didn’t mind it. But right now, it simply made him all the more aware of his being a robot. A mere machine, not a beating heart or a soul or a pair of eyes seeing the world in all different ways…

The Spine frowned down at him. “You’re looking a tad morbid there, Hatchworth…” He paused a second, leaving space for the bronze bot to open up, but he only stared at his fingertips, silent. Steam whistled from The Spine’s lips in a sigh.

“You don’t need to tell, Hatchworth, but I’d rather you did so I could be of some help.” 

Again, there was no answer. 

The Spine hesitated, then gave his shoulder another pat. “I’ll leave you to stasis, I suppose.” With that, he headed out, casting a worried glance backwards. What he saw shattered his core, stuttering his processes for a moment. 

Hatchworth was curled up on his side, fingers stuffed into his mouth to keep from screaming or worse, eyes wide but somehow empty. 

The Spine bit his lip and shut the door softly, not knowing what else to do. He wasn't good with emotions; his empathy wasn't always working. But if Hatchworth wasn’t wanting to tell him, there wasn’t much else he could do. So he left down the hall with a deep frown on his face and a heaviness in his boiler he hadn’t felt in ages.


	3. Machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a longer chapter! I got going and couldn't stop, honestly... I'm having a great time writing this, and I only hope some of my passion is shining through. Happy reading, pals!

Hatchetworth. That was his new name.

He’d spent a good few weeks straining his eyes at the clipboard in The Engineer’s intern’s hands. The intern was a young man, soft in speaking and calm in countenance. He didn’t dare speak to Sam in The Engineer’s presence, but when the scientist had taken his leave for the night, the intern would stick around for a few seconds to offer a kind word or two.

“Hello,” he’d murmured a few months ago. “I’m Kelley, well, Smith Kelley. You can call me Smithy.”

Sam had been starved for human contact up until that fateful night. He came to realize that not every man was a monster, that humanity, in its flawed way, was ultimately incorruptible. There would always be a chap or two with goodness in his heart.

He came to crave the young man’s visits. Even if the only thing Smithy said was a quiet hello, Sam felt comforted. He came to look at him as a pawn in The Engineer’s schemes, well-intentioned in the progress of science but blind to what it would truly affect upon those at the hands of so-called scientists. 

And Sam didn’t let him know, didn’t say a word to him in return. Even when he felt his last breath was dragging through his lungs, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter the lad’s idealism. Smithy truly thought he was doing the right thing.

He also couldn’t risk The Engineer knowing he was completely and fully conscious, able to form language in his head. That would only lead him to more and more experimentation… Sam shuddered at the memory of a deranged sympathy in the man’s eyes when he’d replaced his eyes with what he called “optics”. He had cooed at him as if he were an infant, and then laugh when his breath seized with pain as the drill bit entered his eye. He could give the man no more cause for his sadistic version of progress if he wanted to get out of this intact.

But he was beginning to doubt that he even wanted to survive this.

For one thing, watching his flesh slowly being replaced with mechanics and machinery was driving him to the brink, he was sure of it. Not many could sit and stay silent through it, and his resolve was wavering. He wanted to scream obscenities at The Engineer or plead for his life or even get in one word that might give him pause. One second of relief. That’s all he wanted.

Another thing eroded his will to live: Smithy wasn’t keeping up with his visits. Lately, he had heard disquiet in his voice, a preoccupation that Sam could not predict the results of yet. The lad had a furrow in his brow that was most unlike him, and this, combined with the lack of any real dialogue directed at him, pressed Sam to believe that soon enough, he would be all alone.

A final, horrific worry wriggled at the back of his brain, keeping him up when he was supposed to be in “stasis”. How would he be used in the war? Would he be forced to turn against the United States? And what of his brothers in arms, would he shoot them in cold blood? His soul replaced with steel, his heart with iron… would he even remember their faces? He knew The Engineer was an American given a grant through top-secret government operations, but he never felt he could trust the man to act in a predictable manner.

A sliver of cold wormed its way down his chassis, shivering him until he closed his eyes, completing the darkness.

\---

He heard The Engineer’s crowing laughter before his optics picked him up. Instantly, an array of options flashed before his eyes: “Bullet to temple sufficient to eliminate target. Mortar will result in structural damage and is not advised. Hatchets not sufficient at this distance.”

Sam wasn’t yet equipped with any weaponry, but he swore that the minute any of it was functional, he’d use it to kill the scientist.

“Okay, my pet project… I have some simply lovely news for us! The man in charge has requested that I speed you along. So tomorrow, you'll be outfitted with the crown piece… your crown! We’ll have to link up some serious re-wiring in there to get what I want done, but don’t worry. You’ll be fully operational in no time!”

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. Effectively, he was to be lobotomized, turned into a willing servant of The Engineer and whoever he was working for. 

The Engineer gleefully tapped his nose. “I’m off to pick up the necessary parts for you. Ohh, Hatchetworth…” he sighed, “I simply cannot wait to see you completed.” He all but skipped out of the lab, a huge smile on his face.

The second The Engineer left, Smithy came rushing in. His face was pulled into a grim determination, and he leveled his intense gaze at Sam gravely. “Blink once if you can understand me.”

Sam hesitated. Was it worth it to blow his cover? What if Smithy reported it to The Engineer? He swallowed though he had no need to, and very deliberately blinked his right eye.

Smithy let out a stream of swears that would have curled Sam’s mustache had he not been scared out of his wits. “Curse that old man! He told me… he told me we were at the forefront of progress. He told me we were at the helm and not one company was coming close. He…” he turned to Sam, eyes brimming with tears. “He told me you wouldn’t feel a thing.” 

His eyes grew hard as granite. “I’ve suspected you to be awake for weeks… I wish I’d seen it sooner, or acted on it right when my gut told me you were alive and in pain. Well, I’ve an idea. We’ll go against that mad scientist and win.”

Sam’s head spun with all there was to process. Smithy was on his side. He had an ally! 

No… he had a friend.

For the first time in months, Sam Luke smiled.


	4. Twitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for budding alcoholism (it's refined oil, not actual alcohol, but it's similar in its portrayal and effect). 
> 
> This portion of the chapter is derived from a RP my twin (Aloof_Introvert here on ao3) and I did months ago! Hope you all like it!

Hatchworth stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing at his optics. It had been a ridiculously long week, and he was happy enough to be back at Walter Manor after a string of shows. He’d be much, much happier if The Spine would stop shooting him concerned looks across the kitchen table, however. 

The silver bot hadn’t actually said anything to Hatchworth. He preferred to skirt around topics involving authentic, unsullied emotion; they made him uncomfortable. That isn’t to say that he ignored those in pain-- he simply didn’t interpret emotions in the average way. It was a product of his programming. 

“Good morning, Hatchworth,” The Spine said politely. Rabbit paused in her pestering to grin mischievously toward Hatchworth. 

“G’mornin, H-Hatchy! Good t’ see ya,” she told him. “D’ya want a hot cup a’ liquid alloy?” Drinking alloy lubricant helped to loosen up stiff joints in the morning. Humans drank coffee; bots drank liquid alloy. The Spine was particularly fond of the stuff. It was his custom to start off his day reading the newspaper and enjoying steaming cup of alloy. He liked to sweeten it in the winters with a bit of antifreeze; in the summers, he used graphite as if it were cubes of sugar.

Hatchworth shrugged, rummaging in the fridge for some refined oil. It wasn’t like him to drink so early in the morning, but refined oil had become a fixture for him during his increasingly long days. 

Refined oil was a hard liquor for bots. The Jon wasn’t allowed anywhere near it, being so young; The Spine didn't have much of a taste for it, drinking it in fastidious moderation; and Rabbit wasn’t to have any more than a glass per week. She could get belligerent and cruel when too much entered her systems. 

The Spine’s eyebrows shot straight up when Hatchworth grabbed a tar-colored bottle of the stuff and swigged back a big mouthful. “Isn’t it a tad early for refined oil, Hatchworth?” His tone was equal parts concerned and reproachful. 

Hatchworth mumbled something under his breath after another large swallow, and Rabbit craned her neck to hear him better. “‘Scuse me?”

“I told him to go stick a bolt through his brain,” Hatchworth grumbled, glaring at The Spine. Rabbit gasped and let out a low whistle, settling in to watch the show. If she’d had popcorn, she would’ve been munching away. 

“Now, now, Hatchworth, there’s no need for obscenities,” The Spine began, but Hatchworth wasn’t listening. He took a short length of charcoal out of his breast pocket, then a small pocketknife, and snicked a chunk off. He popped this into his mouth and chewed noisily.

Charcoal-chewing was a habit The Spine could not abide. It gummed up the systems with powder and made the work of bellows much harder than it needed to be. Worse still, it was addicting. He knew Hatchworth to chew a plug of it on occasion, but while he was talking? The Spine couldn’t believe the disrespect from the surly bot. 

“Hatchworth…” he said, tone warning. 

“Yeah?” Hatchworth asked. He wasn’t impressed with The Spine’s posturing, and to prove this, he let a little fact drop. “What, is it the. Charcoal? The Jon certainly seemed. To enjoy it.”

Rabbit’s mouth dropped open. The Jon was basically a child, he shouldn't be chewing coal. The impressionable bot probably accepted just to see what it was like. If Jonny was hooked… well, there’d be a major problem on their hands.

The Spine stood up fast, slamming the chair into the table. The sound was like a gunshot in a nighttime field; huge, booming, and intimidating. 

But Hatchworth continued to stare at him, tipping up the bottle. He didn't break eye contact as he spat a black stream of watery coal onto The Spine’s shoe.

The Spine’s eyes narrowed. “Outside, Hatchworth. Let’s go.”

Rabbit could only gape as the two walked out of the room.

\---

The Spine whirled on Hatchworth as soon as they were out of earshot. “What in the devil is the matter with you?” His voice was a hiss.

Hatchworth shrugged, hands tucked into his pockets. The oil was seeping into his systems quite pleasantly, making things just a bit more faded and calm.

He certainly sobered up quick when The Spine slapped him across the face, though. His head snapped back, and he brought a hand to his cheek, shocked. “What…?”

“I’m glad I got your attention,” The Spine said. “You and me, we’re going to have a little chat.”


	5. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter gets pretty graphic. I'm not very happy with it, but seeing as this is my most challenging fic to write, it's probably not too bad. I have more ideas with this fic, but I didn't want to crowd the chapter. Happy reading!

“Whistle wistful, as you wisp down the street  
A ghost in a ghost town, drifting along on your feet  
And when the moon is dipped low over the hills  
Run your fingers down her spine and give her goose chills.

Dumb with death, your friends are;   
No one left around to lead the charge,  
So you stomp your feet up in the dust  
And stare at the sun and curse and cuss.

Where are the gravestones, the flying flags?  
No, your comrades are curled in body bags.  
No one’s here to read the story,   
So go unread! Your pages hold no glory.

Take a bullet for your child  
As he spits at you, eyes wild.  
No one wants your hands to light down  
Against their back, and so you drown.

Calloused with wear and mouth thick with oil,  
Leave the tired, heave the toil,  
And bear it all upon your back.  
Keep your head up, Soldier Jack.”

Sam remembered this poem he’d written three years ago when he’d first been deployed. He’d been dug into a trench with his fellow boys, defending what little land they’d taken in the night. It was similar to the old war, this fighting, but everyone was smarter, B-17s skating through the sky overhead. He was just a grunt back then, a boy scared out of his wits scribbling nonsense verse while he waited to die. They’d managed to hold their ground, and he’d been spared.

But for what?

He came back to reality and whimpered as Smithy rummaged around his skull, gritting his teeth at the worst invasion of himself that had been enacted to date. A pathetic noise, really; Smithy hadn’t yet figured out how to unmuzzle him, and so he sat silent save for groans of pain. Smithy patted his back.

“I know it hurts, Lieutenant Luke… but this’ll bar any of his technology from completely taking over your brain,” the lad said. Sam certainly hoped so.

He finished with what he called a “dampener”, closing Sam’s skull and twisting his hat back on. 

At that moment, The Engineer walked in, bringing the brisk air in with him. “Ooh! It’s chilly out there,” he smiled, clapping Smithy on the back. “Are you familiarizing yourself with Hatchetworth here? That’s a grand idea, boy. After all, you are my protege.”

Sam stored this information away in his brain quietly. Any scrap he could know about   
The Engineer could turn out to be important later on down the road, so he was constantly tuned in. It could be exhausting, being hyper vigilant, but he had to. Anytime he let his guard down could result in more pieces being pulled off him and replaced with metal.

By now, he figured he was about eighty percent machine… but if The Engineer claimed his brain, it’d be all over. He tensed as the man came close, tweaking his nose easily. 

“Hatchetworth, my creation… so good to see you. Shall we begin?” He picked up a sort of artificial brain, filled with tubes and wires. Sam recoiled at the very sight of it.

“Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Luke,” The Engineer assured, subtly adding in an insult to Sam’s rank. “This won’t hurt… if you don’t struggle that is. Naughty machines who wince in writhe get shut down, and we both know how much you hate that…”

He pulled off the top of Sam’s skull, peering in. They had him on life support, making brain surgery a viable option; but it still felt irrevocably wrong. He couldn't articulate it; he didn’t he ever would. 

Sam held his breath throughout the operation, expecting for the desired change to take place in one sharp second. But when The Engineer closed his head and soldered it, stripping off his restraints, he still felt the same. He was still Sam Luke.

The Engineer paused once the leather straps were fully off, getting to eye-level with Sam. “Okay, Hatchetworth. Say your first words… say, hello, master.”

Sam spat in his face, oil spattering against The Engineer’s white work apron. 

“Wh--?” And then his face darkened. “Boy… I thought I saw some foreign tech in there! Clever to hide it for so long, eh?” He whirled on the suddenly-shaking intern. 

He smiled, teeth aglow in the harsh fluorescent light. “No matter.” And with that, he snatched a hammer from the workbench and began to lay into him, vicious movements shocking Sam into inaction. A second later, his weapons processes came online, and he fumbled for bullets, stuffing them into his mouth and clicking them into place with his metal tongue. 

Crosshairs appeared on The Engineer's back, and as he turned around, blood dripping from his hammer, he had time for one word. “Hatchetworth!” He screamed, and Sam shot him. The bullet penetrated slickly, and it was all over. 

Sam raced to Smithy’s side, but the boy was past saving. His skull was caved in like a pathetic lean-to in a rainstorm. Oil tears gathered in Sam’s eyes. His only friend, dead in front of him…

He stood. After a moment, he pulled a tarp over the lad. He left his prison with a heavy heart, but finally free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That poem at the start is by me! :D


End file.
